


Two Kinds of Sun

by Sundial_at_Night



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Brothers, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Missing Scene, Near Death Experiences, Sibling Bonding, Suicidal Thoughts, Visions, and wrote this in a few hours, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24638254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundial_at_Night/pseuds/Sundial_at_Night
Summary: Missing scene fill: Thor nearly dies after holding open the iris to forge Stormbreaker. He has a vision (similar to Odin's in Ragnarok) only... it isn't Odin who is there waiting for him. It's Loki with some parting words of advice.
Relationships: Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 88





	Two Kinds of Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in *checks time* about three hours so have mercy on me, please. Sorry for any grammar/spelling errors. Enjoy!

It was hot. So very blistering hot that he couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t _breathe._ The last part terrified him—that the air was so hot that it threatened to burn his lungs out from inside him. There was no thinking, no moving, no breathing—only the heat. Not that he dared to breathe in the smell of his own burning flesh. His skin was scorched and blistered beneath his bloodied clothes from the _Statesman,_ and for a moment, the god wondered if even he may not be able to survive this. Then he realized that it wouldn’t matter.

What did it matter if he died? There was nothing left for him in the land of the living but _pain._ More and more pain because it was so blindingly _hot._

And this was what he was supposed to do, his brother had said in not so many words. He had long since learned to look past their surface value for what they were underneath.

 _“The sun will shine on us again_ —

— _undying fidelity.”_

The words were fond, sentimental, entirely unlike his brother, and Thor could see past them in an instant. _“Undying,”_ Loki had said, and Thor knew exactly what was about to happen, powerless to stop it, just there to watch as—

As the Titan _murdered_ his brother.

He _murdered_ him and Thor did not— _could not_ —do anything at all, just a spectator in what he hoped was a painfully realistic macabre theatre. Only, it wasn’t a theatre. It was _real._

It was real this time, he thought, even though it always felt real. He’d searched when Loki had let go, and he had mourned when he died on the sands of Svartalfheim, but he thought his brother _dead_ on both occasions. 

Perhaps now was no different and Loki would show up after all of this was over with a snide smirk and a witty quip about how Thor would always fall for the same tricks—how he had to make Thor believe it was real so that Thanos would believe it was real, and that now he was back and staying for good. That he had faked his death a third time so that he could make it out of there alive.

And Thor would yell at him for it, demand that Loki tell him how he could do such a thing to him _again._ Then they would be all right after that, no less than a day later, moving on, just grateful to be with each other and alive.

Thor didn’t think any of that would happen this time around.

Loki was dead.

Inarguably, genuinely, legitimately dead this time, and staying that way for the foreseeable future.

He had _felt_ him there, body cold and skin already ashen. Just like Svartalfheim, which wasn’t real, but had felt as such.

And that little flicker of hope—that maybe he would be back in a few days, or maybe a few years—persisted no matter what he did to conquer it.

Loki was _gone._

And if he was to defeat Thanos, and exact his revenge, he would need to put his grief on hold, focus only on that single goal until he was dead and then—

Then he could lay his people, his best friend, and his brother to rest, knowing that they had been avenged. After that… after that, he didn’t know what was going to happen. He would go on because they would want him to, and he would try to live for them until he took his place in Valhalla, but without anything or anybody left to lose, what was there for him in life?

What was waiting for him on the other side of victory?

Mourning.

Grief.

_Nothing._

Vengeance was all he had left, and he would take it.

_“The sun will shine on us again.”_

Oh, it was shining. He could feel it on his skin, in his lungs, through his _bones._ It was hot and oppressive and _burning._ And he had to keep the mechanism open because this was all he had left. Just pain, violence, and eventually, vengeance. That was all.

He held on until he couldn’t—until his mind faded, and he forgot why he was doing so in the first place. For one brief moment, there was nothing but clouded sensations over his mind.

No pain. No grief. No _loss._

Just him, floating through space for the second time that day, which seemed remarkably unfair until he realized that it didn’t matter. He hadn’t expected to be picked up by anyone the first time; he had expected to die. He’d _welcomed_ it; a fitting death for a failure of a king who destroyed his own realm and then couldn’t protect what was left of it. Surrounded by the bodies of those whom he had failed.

There was the feeling of something slamming into his body—or perhaps he slammed into something. It was hard to tell the difference. Someone was yelling; Eitri, he thought.

And then there was nothing as the world faded to black, sounds muffling as though he was listening from underwater.

Silence.

Darkness.

_Nothing._

* * *

He was on the cliff side where his father had died mere days ago, stumbling through the wispy grass that swayed in the breeze. It was bright, a startling contrast from the cold forge of Nidavellir, as the sun shone brightly without any clouds to hinder its light. There was a wind that felt cool on his skin, which had been burning only a second ago, but now, the pain was gone, as was everything else.

Had he _died?_

Thor looked up and around him, taking in the familiar scenery. He had been here before, in dreams where Odin had hinted at his fate. How his father could die just before all of this was to happen was a mystery—how he would abandon his sons right when they needed him most.

It was peaceful, serene. Like there was not a danger in the universe. Like Thanos was not still out there hunting for the Stones like the obsessed psychopath he was. Like everything was right in the world and this was where he _belonged._

Only… he _didn’t._

Because this wasn’t real.

Because this was a dream.

Because he had been here before.

So, this was not the entrance to Valhalla.

So, he was not dead.

Which was a good thing, he thought.

Thor looked around at the dreamscape for only a second before his eyes settled on the figure standing by the cliff. He had been expecting Odin, who usually brought him these dreams. But it wasn’t his father.

No.

There was curly black hair where there should have been white, and green Asgardian leather where there should have been beige Midgardian clothing. That was Loki. Which meant… 

Which meant that he was dead.

He was _actually_ dead this time.

Loki didn’t need to turn around for Thor to be sure that it was him. He could recognize that posture and those curls anywhere. The figure was not phantasmal, holding no indication that it might be a spectre, completely solid and full of colour and deceptive life.

“Brother,” he called, approaching the edge of the cliff. It was a steep drop, and for a moment, Thor was reminded of that cursed night on the Bifrost. The waves sloshed below, pounding against the rock, then receding just as quickly.

Loki didn’t face him, eyes set on the horizon line in the distance. His hands were in front of him, no doubt picking at his palms as he always did. It drove their mother crazy, how he had picked up on her bad habit, leaving his palms cracked and open, especially once he started training with weapons.

Thor stood on his left, gaze shifting between the sea and his brother, who looked entirely peaceful and content to just stand there in silence. It was… different. He had almost forgotten what ‘healthy’ looked like for Loki. There was the time before his botched coronation where he may have been physically healthy, but his eyes were always dull, looking, but not seeing—not _happy._ Then he returned from the Void, twisted beyond recognition, and appearing as if he had just been shoved through Hel, which was likely an apt description given that he had been with Thanos before coming to Earth.

Thor didn’t know the details; Loki had closed up every time he had attempted to bring it up on the _Statesman_ , shutting down the subject through deflection, avoidance, and distraction, until Thor had enough of that and Loki just stopped talking entirely.

Sakaar was chaotic, lawless, a place where Loki could get away with his usual trickery and enjoy himself while doing so. But Thor knew even when he agreed that Loki should stay, that he could never be genuinely happy there, far away from what little family he had left.

It hadn’t occurred to him until later that Loki may have wanted to stay there in _hiding._ That was frightening to think about—Loki so terrified of something that he may have spent the rest of his life on a foreign planet literally made of garbage to run from it.

Here, he looked relaxed, which was not a feeling he had associated with his brother in centuries.

“You’re dead, aren’t you?” he finally asked after letting the silence linger for far too long, feeling only a little foolish for his need for confirmation. If he wasn’t, then Thor was losing his mind.

“I am,” Loki answered calmly, face carefully blank. 

Thor stilled at the sound of his voice; smooth and mild like silk, and tinted with a light note that he couldn’t quite place. He reached for Loki’s shoulder, only to see his hand sail straight through. There was no flash of green light; this was not an illusion. Loki just wasn’t _solid_ anymore.

His brother noted his hand falling on air, and smirked thinly. “I am _here,_ just not tangible. It was real this time. It was real for the others as well.”

_Wait._

_What?_

_But how?_

_If his death on the Dark World was reality and not some illusion, how had he survived?_

_Even the Aesir do not survive a blade through the chest._

_Only… Loki was not Aesir._

Thor forgot that occasionally, considering Loki his brother regardless of what realm he was born on. He wasn’t Aesir biologically, but by that definition, neither was half of Asgard. That didn’t make him any less Asgardian.

All the same, how had he survived?

“Svartalfheim was—?”

Loki nodded slowly, letting his hair sway around him like tapestry. “They are both quite similar, brother,” he said, meeting Thor’s tearing eyes with piercing green _patience_ that unnerved Thor to his bones. “Both times, I meant to die.”

Thor’s stomach twisted into a thousand awful knots that only grew tighter with each passing second of consideration. He had _meant_ to die all three times, was what he was saying. Loki _let go,_ he let the Kurse skewer him, he faced Thanos with a _dagger._ He’d had a death wish for longer than Thor had been paying attention.

Loki almost looked remorseful at Thor’s expression, which had no doubt morphed into something like guilt for his brother’s indifference over his own death. “I meant to die for you,” Loki continued, voice flat and toneless. “Only once did I succeed in that.”

“And I am not happy that you did,” Thor growled, anger spilling over from before Loki had tried to kill the Titan with a flimsy dagger. He’d taken the Tesseract, doomed their people, doomed _himself._

“I know,” Loki sighed, dropping his hands to his sides, and staring straight ahead. “But I am not sorry.”

 _He’s not_ — _?_

_Why?_

Thor shot his brother a look that fell somewhere between confusion and anger. “Brother?” he asked.

“Because _you_ lived,” Loki finished, green eyes set on blue, and Thor’s heart _snapped._

He didn’t—

It couldn’t—

That wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to live in a universe where he had no purpose but revenge, no family to return to, and no friends that would live until even half his life was done.

“You have to understand, brother, that I was never meant to make it out of this alive,” Loki continued without regard to his swirling thoughts as he looked into the sea. “He promised a fate worse than death—” Loki _shivered,_ and there was no question over whom ‘ _he’_ might be “—for my failure on Midgard. I was not about to grant him that victory.”

“Loki—”

“And you will not grant him any victory either, Thor,” he commanded firmly, finally holding eye-contact. His gaze was sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument on Thor’s part.

“I was not planning to,” Thor averred, giving a light smile, though it felt forced and unnatural.

Loki’s lips thinned into a tight frown. “Not while he lives, not when he is dead. Do you understand?”

_No._

No, he did not understand because—

“How could he have victory when he’s dead?” asked Thor, narrowing his eyebrows. Certainly, death indicated defeat, and when the Titan was dead, how could he be victorious?

Loki tilted his head thoughtfully. “Do not let your loss consume you, brother. Have your vengeance, then _live.”_

Thor shook his head harshly. How was he supposed to live when he had nothing? How was he supposed to rule and protect Asgard with no one by his side? Loki had said that he was never meant to live through this, meaning he planned to die. Thor realized he was doing the same, planning for his own demise. He would be all right with that—with _dying._

“If I don’t want to?” Thor inquired, tilting his head at Loki, and making a face that asked why he must.

“The sun is shining, brother,” Loki noted tonelessly, facing the sky and the soft rays of sunlight that were entirely different from those of Nidavellir’s star. He didn’t answer the question. Even in death, he would deflect until the end. But Thor could see through his half-hearted deflections now.

“I don’t—I don’t want it to,” he admitted mildly, though he didn’t want it to be mild. He wanted to _rage,_ to scream until it stopped. “Not without you there. I don’t have anything else _left._ Why did you have to _die,_ Loki? I don’t want the sun to shine if it is not doing so on you as well.”

“It is shining on both of us now, is it not?” Loki gestured with an outstretched hand to where the sun was beginning to set on his right. Time moved differently in the dreamscape; Thor guessed. Not minutes ago, it had been at its peak.

“Not really,” he answered, remembering the question and the truth of this place. “This is a dream. I don’t want it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Loki said softly. “ _Live,_ brother. I hope I do not see you soon.”

Thor felt like the words physically struck him until he grasped their second meaning. Loki didn’t want to see him because he didn’t want Thor to _die._ He wanted him to _live_ with or without his people, with or without his best friend, with or without _him._

He couldn’t—

He couldn’t promise such a thing—that he would not die in the battle to come or that he would be able to return to something that resembled a normal life, but he could try.

He could at least try.

For Loki.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I went overboard with the em dashes. Thanks for reading! I love and cherish all comments and kudos.


End file.
